The sun has just risen, the first rays shining
and bouncing off the sharp edges of the
barbed wire, encircling and limiting,
a population of some odd seven thousand, each worse than the last.
The fresh fragrant aroma of morning tea, made from water heated in the sun, penetrates the air, the camp coming to life with early morning chatter about the leaking plastic roof, the bugs and mosquitoes circling over stagnant puddles of water from the week before.
The landscape has lost its charm long ago; the mountains look the same, each farm grows the same crops, the trees are tall and long and thick, the dust and grass and the sun have been their constant companions for a long time now. Slowly, the sounds of infants wailing for their mothers’ breasts and the gleeful laughter of the innocent kids playing with a tin foil ball envelopes the atmosphere. Men begin to line up in front of the makeshift bathrooms with broken plastics bottles filled to the brim with muddy water in one hand the other hand busily squatting away the flies that tinkle their legs and arms. The blue sky, stretched in all its majesty, is sprinkled with eagles, some high, some low, and the elder sisters’ have been entrusted to keep the kids away from the ones that do take the plunge to the ground. The brothers’ though, have all ganged up, all lighting the lasts of their tobacco, neatly rolled up in joints, they say, to keep them going through the day, and to recall the smell of the land they left behind. By noon, the energy of the early morning has faded, having been replaced by an irritated, combustible atmosphere. The kids have quieted, the mothers’ taking advantage of the momentary inoccupation to rummage for food, fresh or otherwise, in the three bags they have been allowed to carry. Some men squat at the entrance of the tents, while others have gone out momentarily, in hopes of some news, something new, something about their family, something about themselves. Hours trickle by, children relapse in silence, famished, the women brew tea, feeding drop by drop to their kids and friends, and men gather round, a fragile plastic up in their hands, talking in a language foreign to the land.
The sun begins to set over the never-ending turf as mothers and sisters arrange for some scraps, and brothers and men discuss the day’s plans. Slowly, the sky turns black, the sky gets dotted unevenly with stars that seem to shoot from the heaven.
Sparse sounds soon fill the world, hushed whispers and loud coughs, and hope fades away, like the stars, and the universe stands still, watching everything disappear into a singular dream of a land that they loved and the life they left behind, as the barbed wire cut across their lives.
Akanksha Varma is an eighteen-year-old English major in a love affair with words. Socially awkward and introverted, her Friday nights involve good books, interesting movies, food, and lots and lots of sleep. She is very observant, a born listener and very emotionally shut down. A travel enthusiast, she loves exploring new worlds and everyday lives of people fascinate her a lot.
“Confessions to a Moonless Sky” is a meditation on the new moon and guilt. I wrote it when I was living in Dallas and was driving back from a dusk prayer. The new moon terrified me on that drive. I was diseased by the knowledge that my partner, at the time, had seen the worst parts of me. There’s immense shame in this piece—it seized my self-image. If the moon could become brand new, then I could start over.
I often ponder on the moon’s reflective nature and pairs of eyes. I’m hyper-fixated on how I am seen by others. Unfortunately, the brilliance of seeing your reflection in another person leads to negativity. After all, those who are too keen on their own reflection are the same people who suffer from it. It is possible to use shame to fuel one’s retribution and personal growth, without becoming consumed by it.
We can look to Shah Rukh Khan succumbing to alcoholism in his own sorrow and then later imbibing his sadness in Chandramukhi. “Confessions to a Moonless Sky” is a lesson for us: Don’t be Shah Rukh Khan in Devdas, instead embody pre-incarnation Shah Rukh Khan in Om Shanti Om!
Sometimes when the moon abandons the sky, I wonder if I drove her away.
If she comes back, will she be the same? How I wish she would come back new, truly new! That way she’d have no memory of the sin I’ve confessed to her. You noxious insect. Sin-loving, ego-imbibing pest. You are no monster, for at least a monster has ideology, it sins with purpose. You sin just to chase ignominy.
But the moon won’t say that, she never does. She’ll just leave the sky and return days later, slowly. And I’ll wonder if she’s new, perhaps she won’t remember my past confessions. What does it matter? Were the moon replaced with one from a different god, I’d drive her away, too.
NAKED: The Honest Musings of 2 Brown Women was born in the autumn of 2018, when Mimi Mutesa and Selvi M. Bunce began sharing their poetry collections. It was scary, beautiful, and terrifying when they decided to trust each other with their most intimate thoughts. Not only did they feel relieved after doing so, but Selvi and Mimi also felt more seen as women of color. They embarked on their publication journey, so others may feel as seen as they did on that fateful autumn.
“Ingrown Hair” deals with the themes of societal and family pressures that are reflected throughout NAKED. Mimi and Selvi have always written for themselves. They see poetry as an outlet, and their poems exemplify their personal frustration and vulnerability. “Ingrown Hair” speaks to Selvi’s experience with the societal pressures of South Asian women, such as getting married, being a good wife, becoming a good mother, and leading a certain kind of life.
There is something strange beneath my skin
telling me to build a house,
make a home,
mother children.
I am not sure how to reconcile it.
My mother was strong
and a mother after all.
My philosophy has been to spend my time
on myself and the world.
I have always thought
I could simply address the thing under my skin
when it finally crawled out.
But when my family starts guessing
who will get married first, and my father
has been saving wedding money for years,
I begin to wonder
if I will have to pluck it out.
The opinions expressed by the guest writer/blogger and those providing comments are theirs alone and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Brown Girl Magazine, Inc., or any employee thereof. Brown Girl Magazine is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the guest writer/bloggers. This work is the opinion of the blogger. It is not the intention of Brown Girl Magazine to malign any religion, ethnic group, club, organization, company, or individual. If you’d like to submit a guest post, please follow the guidelines we’ve set forth here.
I organize play dates for my children. They’re friendships remind me of when I was younger when Fridays were consistently set aside for my friends. Now, it seems play is indeed meant for childhood and work is for aging adults. We often can’t find time for ourselves, let alone our friends, who are busy working mothers like ourselves. Or we moved into unreachable corners of this globe, far away from any means of physical communication. It’s fair to say, it’s hard to stay close to friends like when we were in college. Nowadays, it’s easier to travel, but more difficult to bond with others. “My Friend” asserts that we should not end let our friendships fall by the wayside. Even with physical distance and conflicting schedules, we keep our friendships close with kind words on phone calls, regular FaceTime calls, or even encouraging social media comments. Friendship doesn’t end once we become adults.
The opinions expressed by the guest writer/blogger and those providing comments are theirs alone and do not necessarily reflect the opinions of Brown Girl Magazine, Inc., or any employee thereof. Brown Girl Magazine is not responsible for the accuracy of any of the information supplied by the guest writer/bloggers. This work is the opinion of the blogger. It is not the intention of Brown Girl Magazine to malign any religion, ethnic group, club, organization, company, or individual. If you’d like to submit a guest post, please follow the guidelines we’ve set forth here.
Akanksha Varma is an eighteen-year-old English major in a love affair with words. Socially awkward and introverted, her Friday nights involve good books, interesting movies, food, and lots and lots of sleep. She is very observant, a born listener and very emotionally shut down. A travel enthusiast, she loves exploring new worlds and everyday lives of people fascinate her a lot. 
